Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [18]
But I got there sooner this time, I tell myself now. And even though the doctor’s words echoed in the same manner as they did before and even though the sum of his prognosis was the same, I got there sooner. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to rewrite the future.
Chapter Six
It is 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon, and I am running late, frantically, hopelessly late. Which would be bad enough to begin with. But I am tearing through Grand Central Station, which is congested with wayward tourists and suburban dwellers in for the night and well over two dozen homeless men who have taken refuge inside from the sweltering, choking late-July air. My train is scheduled to pull out at 1:32, and though I am darting and bobbing through the clusters of people, there is little hope that I’ll burst onto the platform in less than one hundred and twenty seconds.
Especially because I’ve yet to buy my ticket.
I skid to a stop in front of the counter, thrust forward twelve bucks, and ask for a round-trip ticket to Rye.
The giant electronic clock ticks above me, and that‘s it. I’m officially going to miss the opening festivities of Jackson’s niece’s birthday party. They start with a piñata, and then quickly move on to a treasure hunt before breaking for snacks.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to arrive precisely at the appointed hour, where upon I’d spend the rest of the afternoon posturing and preening for Jack’s three siblings, manning the bob-for-apples barrel, and most important, proving to his mother that I was smart enough/beautiful enough/savvy enough/just enough to be dating her son.
And now I was late.
Just freaking great, I think, as I park on a bench and wipe off the beads of sweat that are launching from my cheekbones onto the parquet floor.
I’d spent the morning at the office: It turns out that even though I thought I had the literal foresight to know even the tiniest details of the Coke campaign, the actual work still required manpower, and since, unlike the last time around, I now helmed this ship, a good portion of that manpower came from me.
“But you’ll be there, right?” Jack asked this morning, as I stuffed down a stale bagel and impatiently waited for the coffee to brew. “Because it will really help things.”
I chewed on the dry dough and swallowed roughly to dislodge it from my throat.
“Of course I’ll be there,” I snapped. “There is nothing I’d rather do than spend the day attempting to impress your mother. Which, I should know, is a near impossibility.”
“Come on, Jill,” Jack said. “She had a right to be annoyed last month.”
Though it had theoretically been over half a decade, I knew exactly to what he was referring. “The debacle” is what he would eventually call it, complete with the requisite finger quotes, and it was “the debacle” that would slowly heave our tilting relationship into a full-on nosedive, not unlike the Titanic before it broke in half and plunged under the icy waters of the Atlantic.
It was the sixtieth birthday party of Vivian, Jack’s mom, in June 2000, and they’d come into the city to celebrate at a friend’s apartment—one of those sprawling, full-floor apartments that would smell like money if it didn’t smell like Murphy’s oil and roses, thanks to the live-in housekeeper and on-call florist.
When we arrived, Jack, in a crisp gray suit, kissed his mother’s cheek, and she pulled him in so tight I thought she might not let go. Then she held out a cool hand to me, said, “Jillian,” with a cocked eyebrow, and I wondered if my nose would freeze off from her chill.
“Did you see that?” I whispered, as we made our way to the bar.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jack answered, motioning to the bartender for two scotches. “That’s just her way. She’s not one for affection for people other than family.”
“Would it be too much for her to change her way for your girlfriend of two years?”
“Not